


I Could've Sworn (I Saw Fireworks)

by too_much_to_dream



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Child Abuse, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-30 11:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14495523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/too_much_to_dream/pseuds/too_much_to_dream
Summary: "Putting his elbows on his knees, he peers down into the pool. He can’t help but wonder if this is how Barb felt before she died. So overwhelmingly alone. Did she feel abandoned? Scared? Or after a while does alone become lonely? Because Steve has been alone all summer now and he honestly can’t tell whether or not he’s grown accustomed to alone or has become dependent on the idea of independence."Billy always seems to show up when Steve needs him most.





	1. Chapter 1

Overture: Every Single Night’s A Fight

 

Summer hangs in the air like a busted lip: blistered, swollen, and deep, deep red. The air shifts in its humidity, twisting and turning, blowing out short gales of heat that elicit a slight sway from the woods. With verdant leaves that grow out of branches like precious fruit, plump and ready for harvest, the treeline seems to be alive in the dark. The moon in the sky, round and alabaster, casts silver light down upon the hedges. 

 

Anyone would say that it is a perfect July night, made for sticky kisses and the thrill of a cool, boozy tongue running up and down the curves of a neck. On a night like this, anyone who was anyone would feel rapture in the hands of their lover. 

 

Steve Harrington isn’t anyone. A cigarette is perched on his lip, smoke curling up on itself before dissipating into the air. His knee bobs up and down, shaking the rickety lawn chair he’s perched upon. His pool radiates cerulean light, casting Steve’s face blue. July lives like an afterthought in Steve’s head. 

 

He can barely remember a time when he was someone. This time last year, he was getting drunk off of cheap beer and grinding on some girl he didn’t know. Now, he sits alone on a Saturday night and smokes a pack to settle his nerves. 

 

Steve knows he could be doing something but Nancy is off with Jonathan somewhere doing god knows what and the kids are having their game night and for some reason or other he wasn’t allowed to go because he can’t just join a campaign in the middle of it. 

 

The worst part of it, the most pathetic part about it, is that he wanted to go. He wanted to play some shitty board game with Dustin and wanted to have Lucas criticize him for playing wrong and wanted to have Mike yell at him for getting one of them killed and maybe he’s just convinced himself that he should be alone. 

 

“But I just don’t want to be alone.” He whispers. The words flicker at his lips and then are gone, sparks to ash, ash to smoke, smoke taken right back into his lungs. Oh yes, there was a time when mighty king Steve was invited to every party and could have any girl he wanted. But on a night like this, Steve is feeling rejected for not being invited to a bunch of middle schooler’s game night. 

 

Putting his elbows on his knees, he peers down into the pool. He can’t help but wonder if this is how Barb felt before she died. So overwhelmingly alone. Did she feel abandoned? Scared? Or after a while does alone become lonely? Because Steve has been alone all summer now and he honestly can’t tell whether or not he’s grown accustomed to alone or has become dependent on the idea of independence. 

 

It’s still relatively early, just around eight or nine, and he could go somewhere. Maybe Steve should. But right now, it hurts less to be alone than to need other people. Other people means addressing his own hurt, and god it sounds awful but Steve needs that hurt, at least for now. After Barb, after Nancy, after all the bullshit in his life and his own bullshit self, all he has left is that hurt. As soon as it's gone, he has nothing to remember what it felt like to be happy. 

 

He takes a long drag of his cigarette, pushing it out between his teeth. When did he start to get so roaring drunk on his own self loathing? He knows this isn’t healthy, Nancy has told him as much, sitting here and smoking and being alone and lonely at the same time. Steves bites his lip and doesn’t know whether to scream or cry. 

 

Suddenly, a noise echoes from somewhere in the woods, then the scurrying of feet or paws or  _ claws _ against leaves and Steve jumps to his feet, chair clattering to the ground behind him. His chest seizes, panic taking over him in an instant. Something steps on a branch and the crack is like lightning in his veins. 

 

Steve freezes and stares at the woods beyond the pool, searching for those unnatural lights in the woods. But the sounds recede and melt away into the night. It's quiet once more.  He throws the cigarette to the ground, as well as his knees, sighs, and puts his face into his hands. Steve’s mere inches from the edge of the pool. If he fell forward, he would drown. Nights like these aren’t getting any easier. 

 

A hand lands on his shoulder and Steve’s body goes stiff, skin raising in absolute dread.  _ Fuck, I shouldn’t have looked away _ . The figure is a presence behind him, looming over his body, and he can feel an organic heat radiating from it.  _ At least it isn’t a demogorgon.  _ But nonetheless, he clenches his fist, blood palpably pulsing in his skin. And just as he turns to punch someone in the face, to scream, to cry, to fight for his life for a third time, the figure speaks. 

 

“Chill out, Harrington. You jumped like a fucking pussy. I didn’t know you were such a wimp. What? Scared a monster will get you?” Hargrove’s voice is low, warm like honey, as he delivers the jab. It’s without real edge. 

 

Steve isn’t sure whether to scream or cry.  _ What the fuck is he doing here?  _ A beat passes. Hargrove’s hand is still on his shoulder.

 

“What Princess? Don’t have anything to say to me?”

 

So he just sort of shakes, breaths shallow and panicked, and he really can’t tell whether or not he’s relieved or more frightened because  _ what the fuck is he doing here? _ It’s what he wants to say but can’t, physically can’t, and he starts to choke on his own breaths. And so there he is, on the verge of tears, shaking like a fucking greyhound, having a panic attack in front of fucking Billy Hargrove.

 

Steve expects another jab. He expects to Billy to laugh at and mock him. He expects him to bloody his face so bad again that he can’t leave bed for a week. He expects him to throw him into the pool, press a lit cigarette butt against his arm and leave a scar, pull at his hair until his scalp bleeds. 

 

Steve knows what he expects and what he expects isn’t this. 

 

Hargrove is sitting next to him and his hand has moved to his shoulder to his back. Steve can feel Hargrove’s fingers rubbing gentle circles into his shirt and the sensation doesn’t make him want to crawl out of his skin. So he doesn’t move away, he doesn’t slap the other boy’s hand away, he just lets him rub his back. Billy Hargrove and Steve Harrington are sitting at the water’s edge, the latter sobbing into his hands and the other….comforting him?

 

Steve doesn’t care how weird this is yet. He focuses on the circles, on the way Hargrove’s fingers feel on is back, on the steady rhythm of the other boy’s breathing. He matches it.  _ In. Out. In. Out.  _ Soon, his chokes reduce to small wheezes. Soon, he can breathe and his eyes aren’t wet. It feels like it's been hours and Hargrove has been silent all this time. Steve is just now realizing that he isn’t alone tonight. He drops his hands from his eyes, sees the blue water of the pool all shiny and new, and then Hargrove speaks.

 

“Sorry.” It’s blunt, it’s curt, but it’s sincere. Hargrove’s figure shimmers on the surface of the water, a blurry reflection of the boy sitting next to him. His hand is still on his back. Steve starts crying again and doesn’t know why and he’s still not really sure what the fuck Hargrove is doing here. 

 

“Jesus, Harrington. I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you to fucking freak out over a little joke.” Hargrove practically growls. Steve stiffens at the hostility of the words.  _ Here it comes, the fight, the punching, here it all comes.  _

 

But it doesn’t. 

 

“Harrington….fuck.” Hargrove sounds exasperated but the words are still shaded with concern. Billy actually sounds like he cares. “I don’t know what happened to you. But clearly you’ve been through some shit and I need you to say something so I know you can actually breathe again.”

 

So Steve looks over at the other boy, not really sure what to say, but ends up not having to think about what he’s going to say because the words come out unwarranted and unwanted. 

 

“What the fuck happened to you?” Billy’s face is mottled yellow, purple, and blue. Immediately, Steve can feel the other boy’s hand drop from his back. 

 

Hargrove laughs harshly, gets up, and leaves.

 

On a night like this, Steve will always be alone. 

  
  



	2. Swarm the Belly, Swelling to a Blaze

_Summer would be different._ The mantra repeated itself in his own over and over during the school year, begging to be known. With every slap, every kick, every push into the wall, he had clung onto that, a glimmering respite in the near-future. The veil of cold would lift itself and he would be reintroduced to heat, bask in the glow of the sun, and spend days away from his house. His father was supposed to be going with Susan to visit her family in Oregon in July like the two did every summer. His father was supposed to be hundreds of miles away. His father was supposed to leave him alone.

 

Even if he had been stuck watching Maxine, that would’ve been fine. Sure, she was a piece of shit sometimes, most of the times, but at least she would’ve spent all her time with her snot-nosed friends. All he’d have to do was make sure she was in one piece when she got home. He could go the community pool, go to ragers every night, maybe even find a girl to have a fling with (god, knows he couldn’t risk a thing with a guy).

 

His skin was supposed to be unmarred for a whole two months so he could actually show off how much he worked out and actually get a tan and maybe flirt with Harrington a little to see if he could fluster him and... _Summer was supposed to be different. It had to be different._

 

Billy was right, just not in the way that he expected.  

 

His father did not do what he supposed to fucking do and instead sent Susan off by herself to Oregon (at least she was going to have a decent summer). Here he was, the pride and joy of Hawkins, Indian, staying for the whole two months. He had made it very clear that he was going to be in the house the entire summer. No business trips, no weekend stayovers, not even a fucking trip to the beach the fucker. Billy was pissed and decided let his father know that.

 

 _That was poor judgment on my part._ He thinks in between jabs to his stomach, breath held in the fist of his father. His fingernails cut into his neck, leaving drops of blood to cascade down his neck like raindrops on glass. His face is a collage of bruises, some old, some new, some barely beginning to form. Yes, this is a typical Saturday afternoon for Billy but now he’s a captive in this house (Neil had taken away his car because “you don’t need to be running around all over the place.”), without even school to act as a release. Summer was supposed to be different and it is because this is the only damn thing he can expect now.

 

It was probably poor judgment to punch the wall, knock over a chair, and yell at his father, but really? Every one of his actions felt justified at that moment, feels a little justified even now as he gets kicked around. It’s not even the worst beating he’s had but the way his whole body aches, the blood welling in his mouth, and the sharp pain that blossoms in his lungs every time he takes a breath, he honestly can’t tell the fucking difference. _This is bullshit_. Billy spits blood at his father, painting his face red.

 

“You ungrateful piece of shit.” Another jab. “No matter how much I teach you and discipline you, you just never learn how to respect your family.” This time a slap across the face. “You know how hard this is for me? How much trouble you cause me and Susan? You only ever think about yourself. You’re upset that you’ll be spending all summer with me? Well good, because you’ll maybe actually mature a little.”

 

“Fuck….you.” He hisses through his teeth and punches his father in the side because god he doesn’t deserve this and he can’t deal with this anymore. Billy’s eyes grow glossy with tears as he thrashes against his father, curls bouncing all over the place, face growing deep purple. This is enough of this bullshit.

 

“Leave me the fuck alone!” Billy thrusts his knee into his father’s stomach, pushing and hitting as hard as he can. Neil buckles over and Billy manages to sweep his legs out from underneath him. His father crashes to the floor, hand ripping away from his son’s throat, as quickly as summer died in his mind an hour ago. July lives at the forefront of his mind.

 

Billy shakes against the wall, taking in deep breaths, fingers nervously tapping against themselves. He’s never hit his father before, never. Not last month when he had skipped school a couple times last month. Not back in October when Maxine had serendipitously disappeared. Not even back in California when his father had caught him sipping soft pink strawberry milkshakes with another boy.

 

So….this, this is new. Billy chokes out a sob, and in his stupid, stupid hysteria, gives Neil the opportunity to recuperate. And so, Billy doesn’t notice when Neil rises, grabs a basketball trophy off the shelf, and swings the gold straight into Billy’s head. He crumples to the ground, felled by Midas himself.

  
~

 

When Billy wakes up, darkness has consumed his room and everything is sticky. His clothes are wet with his own sweat, red with his own blood, and skin alit with his own pain. He chokes down a breath (fanning the flame deep inside his chest), then another (fire taking over the forest), and another (there’s nothing but ash now). Soon, his breathing steadies and he remembers where he is. And what has happened. But Neil is no longer here.

 

 _Fuck,_ he whispers, pushing himself up so he’s sitting. His head floods with light and he is ablaze with agony and nausea. Billy almost topples over again. Tentatively, he raises a hand to where the trophy had hit him. He lets out a tear when he feels the sticky, familiar feel of blood in his scalp. Sitting on his bedroom floor, left in shards, Billy remembers what the prospect of summer had meant to him this whole past year and weeps for the end of July in his mind.

 

 _I’m not a fucking girl,_ he thinks to himself. _I don’t fucking cry._ But even he knows that he’s lying to himself. The tears fall easily, fall readily, and they only make him feel marginally better. They fall lukewarm onto his hot skin and he knows, suddenly, that he can’t stay here, at least not for tonight.

 

Billy lets out as a wheeze as he rises, legs jerking and threatening to give out. When he steadies himself, eyeing the window, he knows that there’s no way he can shimmy down the drain pipe. He turns toward the door and begins his odyssey.

 

It must take five minutes to get to it, each footstep like an anchor against cement, but as soon as he does, hand touching the brassy tones of the doorknob, he feels a little better, a little stronger. And as he turns the knob, Billy feels an inkling of _Billy_ return to him. It isn’t easy but he slinks down the hall as quietly as he can, nothing more than a shadow in the darkness, and slips past the front door into the outside world.

 

He can’t remember exactly what happened next. Maybe, he walked down the road, a ghost of asphalt. Maybe, he wandered the woods once he had reached the end of the street and landed her accidentally. Maybe, this had been the place that he wanted to go in the back of his head and his feet simply obliged to take him to where he wanted, _needed,_ to go.

 

Billy is standing outside Steve Harrington’s house. It emanates a supernatural blue aura and adrift in that ocean is the boy himself. Harrington is kneeling in front of his pool, face swirling with light, cigarette dangling by his side. He looks beau-, _no,_ Billy doesn’t have time to think about that, can’t afford to think about that, right now. Neil might actually kill him next time and he doesn’t want to die over a simple attraction. And fuck, his head still hurts like hell.

 

He’s really not sure why, but he ends up sneaking up behind Harrington. Admittedly, it’ll be pretty funny to see him jump, maybe even scream a little. It might actually make him feel a little better. Also, it’s easier than asking him if he can come in. Billy walks closer, softly, and lands a hand on the other boy’s shoulder. His thumb grazes over Harrington’s bare skin right at the base of his shoulder and his entire body aches from the beating and something else.

 

Harrington fucking freaks. “Chill out, Harrington. You jumped like a fucking pussy. I didn’t know you were such a wimp. What? Scared a monster will get you?” He wants to tease the other boy, but he grimaces to himself as the words come out tinged with actual concern. And, actually, he is sort of concerned. True, Billy was fucking beat by his dad tonight, but Harrington looks like he’s about to drown himself.

 

Softly, “What Princess? Don’t have anything to say to me?”

 

He doesn’t. And Billy gets that. So instead of continuing to prod, he sits down next to Harrington and does to him what he wished someone would do to him after Neil abuses him, what he wants someone to do to him now. He slides his hand to Harrington’s back and starts to rub gently. Billy runs his fingers in circles gently over the slightly damp polyester of Harrington’s shirt. He takes his time, drawing different patterns and figure eights, charting the canvas of the other boy’s back with his fingers. Billy wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but this helping him calm down too.

 

The pool seems alive tonight, water beautifully blue but almost menacing in the way in shifts in on itself. Billy lets his eyes blur as he watches the waves ripple and dance in front of him. “Sorry” falls from his lips like the leaves will in a few months. Instantly, he wants to take it back, to yell, to scream. He doesn’t fucking apologize to anyone. No one ever, ever apologizes to him. Billy’s feels his free hand clench tightly. The fire is blazing in his chest and he’s not sure if he’ll be able to put it out and why won’t Harrington say anything?

 

“Jesus, Harrington. I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you to fucking freak out over a little joke.”  Harrington stiffens under his touch and Billy’s eyes refocus on the woodline. The other boy’s breathing comes out heavier when it had just relaxed and...this hadn’t been his intention. He wasn’t, or at least didn’t want to be cruel. He didn’t want to help someone calm down only to be the perpetrator of another trauma. Harrington sounds like he’s having a fucking asthma attack and Billy can’t help but remember the way Maxine had looked at him that night. The pure fury and rage and the deep stroke of sorrow toward everything that he had caused. He never wanted to see that look again.

 

“Harrington….fuck.” It comes out shaky and Billy wants to cry again. “I don’t know what happened to you. But clearly you’ve been through some shit and I need you to say something so I know you can actually breathe again.”

 

And to his surprise, Harrington finally looks at him, finally recognizes the fact that the other boy is there. He is painted sapphire in the darkness, gleaming blue under the moon. Harrington’s lips tremble, press apart, and Billy is caught in the breath that Harrington takes. Billy is trapped between Steve’s lungs.

 

“What the fuck happened to you?”

 

Of course, of fucking course. He could have said anything but he had to mention his face and he doesn’t know what he looks like but Billy is sure he looks like shit. He didn’t come here to be mocked. Billy lets out a harsh laugh, gets up, and walks away from Harrington, leaving him at the water’s edge. He knows that no matter what, he’ll never be welcome here.

 

On a night like this, Billy will always be alone.

 

“Wait.”

 

Billy barely hears it, thinks maybe he imagines it, so he stops for a second. The night is silent around him, but he can practically feel the humidity swirling around him. He takes a step forward. Then another. After a few seconds, he is in company with the trees.

 

“Wait.” Harrington’s voice is hoarse but louder this time. Billy can’t breathe. Doesn’t know what to do. So he does what Harrington tells him to do. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. The trees waltz in the breeze ahead of him.

 

“Come back, please.”

 

And Billy does.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Billy are honest to god one of my favorite ships ever. Their dynamic is so interesting to write and I'm so excited to play with it more. Leave a comment telling me how you liked this chapter! (Also, I have to credit the fact that my chapter titles are Fiona Apple lyrics. She's amazing and also makes me very sad).


	3. Swimming

Steve has no idea what he’s doing and apparently, neither does Hargrove. At least, that’s what he assumes, because from the moment that Hargrove sat down, he’s been staring at his feet as they bob slightly in the water. It feels like it’s been hours but he suspects it’s been mere minutes. Steve counts his time in waves. Every bob of his foot lets loose ripples in the chlorinated pool water that makes Steve feel like his body is a clock. One, two, three, he matches his breathing with the oscillations.

Hargrove sat down eight hundred waves ago. His body is not a clock. But he’s a physical presence next to Steve, grounding him into the terrestrial plane and orients him right side up. Somewhere along the way, he took a cigarette out of his pocket and is now amongst a cloud of nicotine. Steve can hear him breathing in between the drags though. In. Out. In. Out. If he could count both the waves and breaths, he would. Hargrove has said nothing. 

He isn’t exactly sure what he’s doing here. No, that’s wrong. Steve knows what he’s doing here, next to him, he asked him to stay with him. But what he’s doing at his house in the middle of the night is beyond him. From the bruises that consume his face and dip below his jawline, it looks like Hargrove got into a fight. And lost. 

Serves him right. Steve thinks. His bare foot swirls figure eights in the water, calling back to what the boy had done to him a couple months ago. A fire skirts in between his ribs, an old flicker of hate and rage eating up kindling. But he shakes his head, swallows hard, and forces the fire out. Hargrove exhales and all Steve can smell is smoke. Fuck. He shakes his head, this isn’t fair of him. As much as he fucking hates the guy, he can’t bring himself to now. He stayed with Steve when he asked, and to be honest, it was helping. Plus, the guy looked like a murder victim. So really, in this moment, Hargrove isn’t that bad. 

One thousand waves later, Steve forces himself to look up at the other boy and he can’t help but hitch his breath. Hargrove’s eye twitches. Even though he had seen his face briefly before, this is different. Compared to the beating he got at the Byer’s house, he has to admit that Hargrove looks much, much worse. The bruises on his face look black, his skin is swollen, and his warpaint is his own blood. It’s fucking awful. 

Steve places a hand on his shoulder and this time, it’s Hargrove who stills. His face turns slightly towards him, lips contorting in on themselves. The other boy’s breath hitches, jaw tightening, as his adam’s apple bulges, words threatening to spill out his mouth. Steve can practically see the panic in his eyes and he resolves to curb it before it swells to rage. 

“Just a mosquito.” He laughs awkwardly, raising his hands in mock defense. His eyes scan the relief map of the other boy’s face, searching and searching, looking for anything that might clue him in on the other boy’s emotions, but there’s nothing. His face slacks and he wheezes out another drag. 

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand. Four.

Steve can’t handle the silence anymore.

“That’s a nasty habit, you know? Stink up your breath and what girls would want to kiss you afterwards?” 

Hargrove rolls his eyes, coughs, and flicks the cigarette somewhere off to his side. It lands in the grass, letting off a small parade of embers, before fizzling out to nothing. Now, with nothing in hand, Hargrove nervously taps against his thighs, fingernails pressing indents into his skin. His other hands floats awkwardly to his hair, pulling at strands and twirling them with his finger. The boy’s breathing is heavy and repugnant. He sort of wishes that he hadn’t said anything to begin with, at least he could handle the silence. Steve snorts and Hargrove glares.

“What?” Hargrove’s hand on his thigh curls into a loose fist. His other hand drops to the ground. 

“Nothing,” Steve half smiles, “just didn’t actually think you’d get rid of it. Maybe you’re less of a rebel than everyone thinks you are.”

“Fuck off, Harrington. I ain’t no pussy.” The words fall flat, no real sense of anger or urgency being conveyed. “Besides, you were just smoking one a couple minutes ago, don’t you want to be off kissing girls….King Steve?”

Steve just rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the water. It continues to shift and fold back in on itself. 

It feels like the humidity is forcing itself down his throat, filling his lungs and preventing any air from entering. He stands, gripping the collar of his shirt and pulling it up and off of him, tousling his hair. His skin is slick with sweat, shining slightly under the harsh glare of the pool lights. Steve rubs at his bare shoulder. He can’t take the heat anymore. 

“Whoa, at least buy me dinner first, Harrington.” Hargrove brings his hands up in mock horror, eyebrows raised. 

“Shut up. It’s fucking humid as hell and I can’t stand sweating anymore. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”  
“I’m not sure how pleasant chlorine would feel right now.” He points at the cuts and bruises on his face.

Steve shakes his head and dives in, the water swirling and cocooning around him. His body cools, sinking further and further down, until he suspends himself between the surface and the cement floor. His feet slightly graze the rough bottom of the pool and he runs a hand through his hair. Everything is quiet. Everything stills. He opens his eyes and all he can see his blue and the four corners of the pool caging him in..

This is where Barb died. 

He parts his lips, chlorinated water rushing into the open reservoir of his mouth. How much water would it take to fill him? He wonders what Hargrove would think if he stayed at the bottom of the pool forever and slowly drowned, joining Barb wherever she was now. Who would miss him? Would anyone notice his absence at all? Sure, the kids would, but they’d forget after a while, he’s sure. They’ve all been through so much that one more death wouldn’t even phase them. He opens his mouth a little wider, lets the water enter a little further.

Silence shatters and the water reverberates, current passing through him in waves. The water compresses around him, a jet of bubbles billowing down and behind the veil he can see Hargrove, both shirt and pants off, clad only in a tight pair of black briefs. His hair spreads out in tendrils across the water. His eyes flicker open then compress, obviously irritated by the chemicals in the water. He looks at Steve’s open mouth and reaches out a hand. Steve supposes that even Hargrove wouldn’t let him die. He takes it. 

Then, surface. Hargrove gasps and wraps his hands around Harrington’s waist, pulling him out of the water and onto the ledge that they had been sitting on just moments before. Steve chokes, vomiting out water and clutching his side. Hargrove pushes himself out of the pool, biceps flexing, and stands over the other boy, face blank. Steve watches him as he walks away, bare feet leaving shadows on the ground. Figures, he thinks, he saves me and leaves. Why would he think anything less?

Steve lays there, shivering in the night, skin pale and breaths shallow. This is what it’s come to: an empty summer, an empty pool, not even fucking Hargrove can find reason enough to stay, if not only to taunt him. He gags, more water spilling out of him, and he wants to take it back in, become more ocean than earth. He fixates on one of the lights in the pool, glaring white in the night and he can almost see tell-tale red hair flowing out of the beacon. He blinks and it is gone. 

He drops his hand by the water, skimming the surface with the fingers, the cold draining from his fingertips as the humidity swarms him once more. But then he feels a gentle but firm hand at the back of his neck, pushing him slowly upward until he’s sitting, and the other pulling his hand out of the water. A hot towel drops onto his shoulders, edges falling just above his chest.

“I threw the towel in the dryer for a couple minutes, figured it would feel better that way.”

Steve turns and Hargrove is still there, skin slick with water, abdominal muscles bulging slightly but now there’s a towel draped around his waist. He can’t read his expression, face neutral, but eyes refusing to stray from his huddled body.

“Oh, uh, thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

Hargrove snorts, untying the towel around his waist and running it through his moist hair. He slips his jeans back on but remains shirtless, crouching down next to Harrington.

“Bullshit.” He offers a hand. “Now, I think you’ve had enough swimming for tonight. Let’s get you back inside, Princess.”

Steve just grabs it, rising slowly from the ground and lets Hargrove march him back inside, shutting the sliding door behind them.

“Where’s your room?”

“Upstairs on the left, but you don’t have to - “ But Hargrove is already dragging them up the stairs and down the hallway and pushing Steve into his room. 

“Get some sleep. No use in sitting around in the dark.”

Steve’s lips quirk slightly upwards. “Thanks.”

Hargrove turns around and Steve charts the plane of his back, the slight ravine between his shoulder blades that runs down his spine. 

“Hey, Billy, are you going to be in Hawkins this summer?”

Hargrove stills. “Yes.”

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around then.”  
“Guess so.”

Steve stalls, rubbing his chest. Hargrove is still standing in the threshold between his room and the hallway, shoulders moving up and down slightly with each breath he takes. 

“I haven’t forgotten, Billy, what happened that night.” Steve lets out a deep breath just as Hargrove begins to turn the corner down the hallway. “But whatever happened to you tonight, you don’t deserve it.”

Hargrove slips out of view, footsteps drifting down the length of the hall. Just when Steve thinks he’s gone, he can hear his voice, low and cautious, reach his room.

“Don’t go swimming alone anymore, Harrington.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been a while. Life stuff happened and it's been crazy but I still wanted to deliver more with this story (especially since I'm nervous about what they're going to do with S3). Please let me know how you liked this chapter and leave a comment! The story will start to pick up after this chapter at least in temporal terms. Plus! We'll get to see more of the characters we know and love!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I've been obsessed with this ship for a while now so I decided to start writing a longer piece about them. Let me know what you thought in the comments.


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